de of the
spade soon put the turf in proper position; and when the grave of Miss
Feud was finished, Yaspard flung his cap in the air and shouted, "Death
to all feuds! So perish all the queen's enemies!"

"The feud is dead! Long live Queen Signy!" cried Fred, lifting the
little girl in his arms; and then Bill Mitchell terminated the
proceedings by calling out, "I vote we go to dinner now, or Thor will
have demolished the best part of it."

To be sure, Thor, taking advantage of such an excellent opportunity,
when no eye was upon him (for Pirate had slunk to his master's feet
when the doll was produced, thinking that his misdemeanour was about to
be declared and punished, and had no attention to bestow on a
marauder), had hopped on to the table-cloth, and was rapidly
investigating the "spread" with an eye to future confiscation.
Fortunately, Bill was more interested in the food than in the feud, and
gave notice of Thor's depredation in time to prevent any serious
calamity to the dinner.

Everybody hastened to the level ground, and were soon seated and busy
over the good things which Mrs. Garson had provided with her usual
consideration of individual tastes and necessities. When the more
serious part of the meal was concluded, and tea and fruit was
circulating, there was a great cry for Garth's ballad of the Boden boy
who long years before had come to a tragic end in Lunda. So the young
scald modestly, but with capital effect, recited his story of

HEL-YA WATER.[2]

"Where the sod is seldom trodden,
Where the haunted hillocks lie,
Where the lonely Hel-ya Water
Looks up darkly to the sky;
Where the daala mists forgather,[3]
Where the plovers make complaint,
Where the stray or timid vaigher[4]
Calls upon his patron saint;

Where the waves of Hel-ya Water
Fret around a rugged isle,
Where the bones of Yarl Magnus
Lie below a lichened pile,
There the raven found a refuge,
There he reared his savage brood;
And the young lambs from the scattald
Were the nestlings' dainty food.

Year by year the Viking's raven
Made that mystic spot his rest;
Year by year within the eyot
Brooded he as on a nest;
And no man would ever venture
To invade the lone domain
Where in solitary scheming
The grim bird of doom did reign.

It was Yule-time, and the Isles' folk
Sained[5] the children by their fires;
Lit the yatlin,[6] filled the daffock,[7]